Each morning, on the path to the lake, I greet three trees.They seem to me to be sisters.My hand rests for a moment against the gnarled bark of each.Nothing passes between us.For a while, I forget myself.The path is still walked.The morning is still morning.Then memory gathers itself around the word I, and I continue towards the water.The trees remain, stoically silent.Perhaps they never needed to remember themselves.Perhaps they were never sisters.Perhaps being was already here, waiting for someone to be forgotten.